


Lovebirds

by Misdemeanor1331



Series: Carol: The Admin from Holiday Hell [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Holidays, Humor, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Office, Romance, Secret Admirer, Secret Relationship, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger aren’t technically dating. They’re just necking in empty conference rooms and enjoying a daily breakfast meeting with no strings attached. But as their first Valentine’s Day as a semi-functional non-couple approaches, someone in their office upsets the status quo through a series of increasingly inappropriate gifts.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: Carol: The Admin from Holiday Hell [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1549972
Comments: 355
Kudos: 399
Collections: Best of DMHG





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my alphas, sparrow_ink and naarna, for providing insight and concrit on the first three and a half chapters of this fic. Thanks to my beta, dormiensa, for helping me up the angst, reminding me of the sweet taste of vengeance, and providing the final SPaG polish.

**Chapter 1**

_Wednesday, January 31_

The memo landed on Draco Malfoy’s desk at half past ten.

Like all memos, the parchment had been folded into a simple paper airplane, the wings sealed with a sticking charm that only the intended recipient could break. The pale lilac paper was particularly innocuous: what harm could a slip of parchment that conjured mental images of a springtime meadow actually bring?

That brand of naïveté was typically broken within a few months of starting at the Ministry of Magic. The parchment itself, far from being easy to handle and soft from use, was stiff and sharp. Memo delivery had been the root cause of more than one eye injury, which usually resulted from the urgency of the sender, the carelessness of the recipient, or—in the most severe cases—a combination of both.

Opening the memo with the tap of a wand was simple, provided the memo was delivered correctly. A misdelivered memo opened with the sound of a plane crash and a puff of purple smoke, which temporarily blinded the unsuspecting recipient. The memo, upon realizing its mistake, would refold itself and return to the air, resuming the search for its target. Last Draco checked, current memo delivery accuracy hovered around eighty-five percent. A whopping three percent improvement on last year’s figure.

Providing the memo could be opened and read, they rarely contained good news. Meeting invites were typical, though Draco had also received new assignments and anonymous tips. Most common were questions on protocol from people who ought to have known better. The charmed papers were secret harbingers: innocent on the surface but tending to bring trouble. And trouble on Level Two, in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, could be very dire indeed.

Unfortunately, ignoring memos—much like ignoring other symptoms of life’s occasional unpleasantness—did not make them disappear, and Draco had learned from experience the consequences of procrastination. Better to deal with it now, when he could perhaps divert the latest international catastrophe, or at least pawn it off onto one of his colleagues, than to have it shoved into his lap later, when he had no better option than to strap on his boots and wade through the dragon dung.

After a deep breath, Draco tapped the memo’s surface and braced for the blast. When none came, he relaxed and unfolded the rest of the note.

 _Malfoy_ , the letter started. Quite a terse opener. _Kindly meet me in Conference Room Three. I have reviewed your most recent intelligence report and have some queries that require your input. Best, Hermione_.

Draco refolded the note and bit his tongue to keep from smiling.

“Another note from Granger?”

Theodore Nott remained focused on the report he was drafting; Draco’s ill-concealed excitement merited no more than a rather bored question.

“No,” Draco lied. Unconvincingly.

Theo shook his head, his quill hovering over the lines he’d just written. The parchment glowed a pale pink from his proofreading charm, and two areas shone forest green. Grammatical errors. His friend hated Oxford commas.

“Would you like to try that again?” Theo asked, his quill dipping down to add the missing marks.

“No.” Truthful, this time.

“Another problem with your intel report?”

Draco grimaced. Theo continued before he could snark a rebuttal.

“The quality of your work has slipped dramatically since Christmas, but you’ve never been so pleasant. I wonder why that is?” He punctuated the question with a knowing look.

Draco searched for an answer—something scathing, preferably—but Theo once again beat him to it.

“It’s about time your wand saw some use.”

“If you’re implying—”

The click of high-heeled shoes crossing the office silenced them both.

Hermione Granger cut an efficient path to his and Theo’s paired desk. Her arms cradled a bundle of scrolls, precariously topped with a self-inking quill, and her curly hair was twisted up and away, held in place by a single, hard-working hairstick. She was the physical embodiment of workplace productivity, her clothes pressed and perfect, each item considered and coordinated for optimum professional performance. If an internal audit were a religious service, she would be its priestess.

She stopped at Draco’s desk. “Ready?”

He almost fell over himself in his willingness to stand. “Yes. Just let me…” He scooped up a self-inking quill and a spare report template. Half-completed, not like it mattered.

“Theo,” Hermione said with a nod.

“Granger.” Theo’s hazel eyes danced with mischief as his gaze shifted between her and Draco.

A faint blush colored Hermione’s cheeks. She lifted her chin just a touch, a brave attempt at pride in the face of Theo’s amusement. She cleared her throat. “Shall we?”

Without waiting for a reply or checking to see if Draco was indeed ready, Hermione started down the hall toward the largest conference rooms. He barely caught Theo’s muttered, “ _Hopeless_ ,” before he left.

Though Draco maintained an inconspicuous following distance—a minimum of five paces, per their department’s _Suspect Tailing_ protocol—he felt the weight of the offices’s stares. Whispers seemed to spawn in his wake. He felt like the gossipy version of Typhoid Mary, spreading wide-eyed, sibilant chatter wherever he went. A frown tugged at his mouth.

They’d been so discreet. Surely everyone couldn’t know…

The concern lingered until the conference room door clicked closed, when the contained, controlled Compliance Officer he’d been following dropped her armload of scrolls, pulled the pin from her hair, and shoved him against the door. Their lips collided, and though the door handle pressed painfully into Draco’s back, he didn’t care.

He didn’t care about much when he was with Hermione. She was like a black hole, but instead of trapping light, gas, and matter, she grabbed expectations, judgment, and fear and tore them from his life as though they’d never existed. Being with her was like being unburdened, and he had grown addicted to the feeling.

He smiled and pulled back for half a breath.

“Am I out of compliance?” he exhaled in the brief space between their lips.

“Egregiously,” she whispered, nipping at his bottom lip.

He untucked her blouse from her trousers and ran his hands along the skin of her waist. How did skin become this smooth and perfect and warm? Some gendered alchemy, he supposed; witches had always been the cleverer sex.

She hiked a leg to his waist, eliciting a groan. He moved a hand to cup her arse, pulling her flush.

“Bloody trousers…”

“You don’t like your women liberated?” She drew back, her brown eyes sparkling in challenge. “Should we be chaperoned? Theo might be willing.”

“Fuck Theo.”

She smiled against his lips. “If that’s your kink.”

He growled and spun them, pressing Hermione against the door. Though he was a gentleman about it and made sure to avoid the knob.

“My kink,” he growled, trailing a line of kisses up her neck, “is saucy witches who wear trousers as a tease.”

Her leg tightened around his hip, and she rocked herself against him. “Consider my wardrobe skirt-free from now on.”

“My second kink is saucy witches who wear skirts in lieu of trousers.”

Their lips met again, a brilliant burst of desire that ended too quickly. “So difficult to please.”

“Au contraire,” he said, meeting her eyes. “With me, Hermione, you can do no wrong.”

She laughed, and they kissed until her wand began to chime, an insistent ping that grew progressively louder. She pulled away from him and made a sharp flick-turn with her wrist, unsheathing her wand from its forearm holster. She caught it expertly and silenced the alarm with a squeeze of her hand.

“Time’s up,” she said.

Draco dipped his head to the slope between her neck and shoulder and nosed her collar away. He pressed a kiss to her skin. “I didn’t hear any alarm.”

“Hearing loss. Is that a workplace related injury?” She leaned her head back. Draco took that as permission. “If so, it’s an O.W.I.E.S. reportable.”

“Might be,” he conceded with a grin. Only she could make the Occupational Wound Investigation and Evaluation System into pillow talk. “I’d have to run it by my compliance officer first.”

“I hear she’s a stickler.”

“Then she must play favorites because you wouldn’t believe what I’ve gotten away with.”

Her chuckle turned breathy as he nibbled the skin of her neck, but her hands were firm as she pushed him away.

“We agreed to be discreet.”

“Discretion is overrated.” Nevertheless, and with great strength of will, he separated his lips from her skin and stepped back half a pace.

She was lovely, all pink-lipped and glassy-eyed, looking at him in that dusky, half-lidded way she favored when they were alone together. Never mind that they were in a government office, which was specifically designed to be unsexy, monotonous, and bureaucratic. Hermione harbored a secret penchant for rule-breaking, and the Ministry seemed to be her preferred location to indulge.

He wasn’t complaining.

With gentle fingers, he straightened her collar and repaired the button he’d popped from her shirt.

“Valentine’s Day is coming up,” he noted, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I know it’s early, but—”

“You don’t have to worry about it.” She sheathed her wand and interlaced his lingering fingers with hers.

The brush-off felt like a Bludger to the chest, temporarily driving the breath from him. He kept his smile affixed and squeezed her fingers.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. We’ve only been seeing each other for a month.”

While technically true, Draco felt as though he’d been pining after her for a solid year. Ever since he’d started at the Ministry and she’d shown him around the office. Ever since she’d helped him negotiate gift-wrapped office accoutrement and kept him sane after a malfunctioning translation charm.

Sometimes, he wondered if the attraction had started before that. Maybe during seventh year, when he’d witnessed her strength under his insane aunt’s Cruciatus Curse. Or fourth, when she’d floated and danced and laughed at the Yule Ball, looking like a dream in periwinkle blue. Or third, when she’d slapped him across the face for being an arse and upended the notion that wealth and privilege made him untouchable.

He rubbed his cheek and dropped his eyes. “Right,” he echoed, trying to ignore the weight of their history. “Only a month.”

She seemed to guess at the source of his discomfort and worked to catch his gaze. “I don’t want or expect anything, Draco. I promise.”

With any other woman, he would have been suspicious, but Hermione had shown remarkable unconcern with material goods. Inconvenient for someone with enough gold to keep a dragon in eternal contentment but simultaneously refreshing: he’d never had a reason to question her motives or believe she was interested in him for anything other than him.

“Okay, but you have two weeks to change your mind.”

“Okay, but I won’t.” She landed a quick kiss on his cheek before bending to gather her heap of discarded parchments. She handed him his dropped quill on the way back up. “And before I forget—” She pulled a scroll, seemingly at random, from the bundle. “Your intel report.”

“Any comments?”

“I found it clear, concise, and well-constructed. Your reports should be the metric by which all others are judged.”

“It isn’t already?”

The conference room door opened at her touch, and she gave him an over-the-shoulder grin as she landed her parting shot: “If it were, you’d never know. Your head still needs to fit into the lift.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Thursday, February 1_

Hermione arrived at the Atrium’s café first. Draco, she had learned, was not a morning person but could be cajoled into a near-human form with a cup of tea and a pastry. She wondered if he would go sweet or savory today. Yesterday had been sweet: a chocolate croissant, which had looked and smelled like a gift from the gods. She envied his ability to eat sweets so early; they never sat right with her before her mid-morning tea break. 

She smiled when she saw him exit the Floo, his platinum hair distinct among the assorted blonds, browns, and greys of uncovered heads and the matte-black bowlers of the behatted. His lips twitched—the best he could manage pre-tea—as she held his to-go cup out for him. He palmed it and held it to his mouth, closing his eyes and inhaling the zesty scent of bergamot against the earthy undertones of the strong, black brew. 

She loved this ritual. It was a rare opportunity to see him enjoy something. _Really_ enjoy it. The warm paperboard against his palms, the steam curling around his nose, the press of his lips against the white plastic lid. He didn’t do this with every cuppa; she’d watched him drink tea often enough, brewed from the shared offerings in their office kitchenette. Only the first cup was treated like the hallowed and life-giving Holy Grail. 

Hermione wondered if he were like this every morning. Warmth spread through her chest at the thought of finding out. It would require waking up next to him, which would mean having him over for more than just a shag and the requisite post-shag clean-up. 

How would he fit into her modest kitchen, a pale and pointed man amongst the warm colors and soft lines of her décor? Would he scoff at how she brewed tea on a modified Muggle range instead of in a charmed kettle? Would he judge her for her mismatched mugs, replicas of the ones her parents had taken with them to Australia? 

The warm feeling disappeared. They had been taking it slowly since their evening of Firewhiskey and elf exploding after the Merry Mark debacle back in December. Hermione didn’t mind the pace. It allowed her to savor the stomach-swooping sensation of something new. There was a sweet, secret excitement of indulging in a long-held crush, and she was in no rush to transition to the quiet comfort of an established relationship. 

It also allowed for strategy. They were both having fun, but their relationship, if it could even be called that, still felt fragile. They had cleared the air of old hurts early on: a sincere apology from him, genuine forgiveness from her. The expansive gap in their life experiences could be overcome, but there were other complications. Her friends, for one thing. His family, for another. 

That was part of the reason they hadn’t taken their casual relationship public. It was encouraged—expected, even—to be friendly in the office. Admitting that their friendliness wasn’t just professional would expose them to external judgment and the expectations it brought. Going public felt like a leap, and Hermione wasn’t sure either of them would be able to stick the landing. She frowned. When would that level of risk feel tolerable? 

“Thanks for this,” Draco said with a sigh, bringing her back to the café. “What can I get you?” 

“You know,” she started, nudging his arm, “this would be more efficient if you let me pick up our drinks _and_ breakfast.” 

He sent her a petulant, side-eyed look. One that indicated unsteady ground and an incoming fit of morning pique. “You’re lucky I let you buy us tea,” he grumbled. “I can’t have the public thinking that I can’t afford my own breakfast.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “They wouldn’t think that.” Even after paying reparations, his family was richer than sin. 

“Or that I’m taking advantage of a kind-hearted coworker in an effort to climb the corporate ladder.” 

“Okay,” she conceded. “They might think that.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched again, and he lifted his chin just a touch. “I’m a scoundrel, Granger, but a principled one.” He sipped his tea and scanned the glass-fronted pastry cabinet. “What will it be today?” 

With a quiet sigh, Hermione turned toward the display. She’d made a valiant effort. Maybe she’d have more luck next week. 

Food in hand (yogurt with fresh strawberries for her, a bacon sandwich for him), they waited amid a growing crowd for one of the Atrium’s lifts. 

“What do you think she’s done this year?” 

Though the question was vague, anyone familiar with Level Two’s holiday celebrations would have known Draco’s intended antecedent. 

“Well, it won’t be _Dial VD_ ,” Hermione answered with a grimace. 

Draco gave an exaggerated shudder at the reminder of last year’s Valentine’s Day activity: a romance-themed murder mystery that had played out over the two weeks preceding February 14. The idea and its execution had been remarkably clever. An unfaithful couple; a woman’s lover found murdered; a life insurance policy that had tripled in value just days before the crime; a cast of supporting characters who were devious, charming, and naïve in turn. Unfortunately, transforming the Department of Magical Law Enforcement into the simulacrum of an active crime scene had set everyone on edge. Gawain Robards—the department’s head and a man who had been born without a sense of humor—was still dealing with the paperwork. 

“What was it the year before that?” 

“Loveboat,” Hermione answered at once.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Fond memories?” 

“Quite the opposite. I was retching the whole two weeks.” 

“You get seasick?” 

“Boats and brooms,” she confirmed as they filed into the lift. “Both make me nauseated.” 

“I always thought it was a fear of heights.” 

Hermione grabbed the leather strap that dangled from the lift’s ceiling and tilted her head back to look at Draco. She made sure to press her backside to his frontside as the morning crowd squeezed into the lift. His eyebrows lifted at her daring. He took a sip of tea to hide his grin. 

“Haven’t you learned by now, Malfoy? I’m not afraid of anything.” 

He bent so that his lips brushed her ear. “That sounds like a challenge.” 

In short order, the lift arrived at Level Two. Hermione froze two steps into the office. She didn’t even flinch at the jarring clash of the lift’s metal doors slamming shut. Draco joined her, utterly silent. For a moment, they both stared. 

The office had been transformed into a rainforest. Lush, green vegetation crawled over desks and up cubicle walls. A series of small waterfalls cascaded down a nearby filing cabinet and into a stream that had been cut into the moss-carpeted floor. The stream ran the length of the primary hall and emptied into a small pond at the office’s main intersection of hallways. There wasn’t currently a safe means to cross it. Hermione slapped a hand to her neck as a mosquito’s high-pitched whine rang in her ear but pulled her hand away empty. 

“Jungle love?” Draco guessed. Hermione gave him an incredulous look. Then, she saw the memos. 

They were origami birds instead of planes, charmed to be a gentle, peachy-orange at the head, yellow-green at the neck, and green with a shock of blue near the tail. Without exception, they travelled in pairs. 

“Lovebirds.” She nudged Draco’s arm, drawing his attention away from the dangling pitcher plants and toward his shared desk space. “Look.” 

Theodore Nott—who arrived at the office before almost anyone, except the department’s Administrative Assistant, Carol—had received a duo. He opened one and nudged aside its partner, whose flapping had become frantic at the disembowelment of its mate. After a quick read, he set the first message aside. He caught the panicked one next, unfolded it, then fell backwards out of his chair as the missive exploded into a cloud of colorful paper feathers. 

“Oh my gods, Theo!” 

Hermione picked her way across the office with as much urgency as the environment would allow, stepping over the stream, edging past a large fern, and tracking fresh footprints through the thick layer of pretty ground orchids that were just starting to bloom small, white flowers. She set down her bag and reached a hand out toward him. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Blind,” Theo said, groping for his desk and finding Hermione’s wrist. “Damn birds.” 

The exploded memo had recomposed itself and returned to the air, this time flying solo to its intended recipient. 

She helped Theo into his chair while Draco busied himself with clearing the foliage from his work station. 

“Carol has gone too far this year,” Hermione said, swatting at another, hopefully nonexistent insect. 

“She’s certainly done her research,” Theo agreed, his voice as brittle as old wood.

He swept a searching hand over his desk until he found a flower with red, scalloped petals. A whole vine of them had crept up the leg of his desk. He held it out for Hermione, though his aim was off by several inches. It looked like he was offering the token to Draco. 

“Flame Lily,” Theo said. “It’s the national flower of Zimbabwe.” 

Draco took the bloom, held it to his nose for a moment, then tucked it behind Hermione’s ear. She blushed, and Draco, apparently satisfied, went back to applying an Imperturbable Charm to his desk’s perimeter. 

“She’s not known for half-measures,” Hermione ceded, conjuring a clip to secure the impromptu accessory. 

“I hope this is all she has in store,” Theo groused. “I’d hate for the office to be taken with malaria in a month.” 

Draco muttered a soft curse and slapped at his arm, and Hermione felt a spike of anxiety. How far would Carol go for tropical accuracy? 

“I’ll talk to her about that,” Hermione said. “Just in case.” 

With a parting smile to Draco and an audible goodbye to Theo, Hermione trekked back across the jungle of a department and began her work for the day. 

When she returned from lunch, a bright pink envelope waited on her desk. A quick glance around the office confirmed that no one was watching, so she slid a finger beneath the envelope’s heart-shaped seal. The card’s front bore a highly stylized question mark. Inside was a handwritten message in flowery, looping script: 

_Roses are red  
Violets are blue  
Your Secret Admirer  
Really likes you._

It was unsigned. 

A thread of worry curled itself around Hermione’s heart, and she sent a second clandestine look across the office. Draco and Theo were engaged in what looked like an intense conversation. Both were frowning, and Hermione watched as Theo palmed his wand and sent a vine snaking around Draco’s ankle. She smiled—their friendship had always had some unique quirks—but the expression faded when she looked back at the card. 

Why would he send this? Just yesterday, they had agreed to leave Valentine’s Day alone, with no exchange of gifts or tokens. She’d meant it, and she’d thought he understood. He’d said as much. 

Unless he’d been lying. 

She buried the insidious, interfering notion with a sharp shake of her head. No. Draco was honest with her. Of course he was. There was no reason for him to go out and purchase a card, unless…

Unless he hadn’t believed her. 

Hermione sat back in her chair. Now there was an idea. She and Draco had just gotten together, after all. Regardless of what she’d insisted, every cultural norm, both wizarding and Muggle, dictated that Draco observe the standard Valentine’s Day gift-giving rituals of cards and candies. Generations of celebrants had honored these traditions; what was her lone voice of protest against decades of reinforced societal expectations?

And there was little harm in a card. It couldn’t have cost him more than a few Sickles, and the notion of him being a _Secret Admirer_ was a clever, tongue-in-cheek reference to their hidden relationship. It was funny, she supposed. Cute, even. 

“Who’s that from?” 

Hermione jumped at the question, and Ron used her distraction to pluck the card from her fingers as he passed. He turned into the cubicle behind her—a two-desk unit he shared with Harry—and heaved himself into his chair with a loud, post-lunch groan.

“You’re lucky that’s not a memo,” she griped, leaning over the chest-high cubicle wall to snatch the card back. 

“Ferret’s not one for poetry, is he?” 

Ron shot a sour look across the office. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, but fortunately, Draco was too busy disentangling himself from Theo’s creeping vines to notice her friend’s glare. 

“It’s unsigned.” She opened a desk drawer and tossed the offending card inside, her proprietary Sorting Charm automatically filing it in a folder marked _Personal_. “Besides, why would it be from Malfoy, of all people?” 

Ron rolled his eyes and said, deadpan, “Oh yes, quite. What a wretch, I’m sure.” 

“Who’s a wretch?” Harry stopped to lean on the half-wall separating her and Ron. 

“Malfoy, who else?” Ron answered. “He sent Hermione a Valentine’s Day card.” 

“He didn’t!” Hermione cut in. 

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Getting an early start, isn’t he?” 

“Making the rest of us look bad,” Ron agreed. “Tosser.” 

“It wasn’t _signed_ ,” Hermione insisted. “That card could’ve been from anyone.” 

Harry and Ron shared a look. Ron: eyebrows raised, mouth flattened in not-quite-a-grimace. Harry: exasperated but too tired or wise to continue the argument. 

“We could dedicate a task force to it,” Harry offered, unsmiling. “Assemble a team, start a briefing. A secret admirer is one late-night Floo visit away from a stalker, after all.” 

“Oh, shut it.” Hermione turned away from them both, effectively ending the conversation, but not before she saw Harry’s amused grin.

The worry in her chest solidified, turning into dread. 

They knew. 

She didn’t know how, but both Harry and Ron had found out about her and Draco’s relationship. The card, no longer able to be rationalized away, felt like a reckless endangerment of their fragile secret. It was like he _wanted_ people to know. 

Her mind swam as she imagined the gossip. The judgment. The whispers of impropriety and conflicts of interest. Maybe he didn’t understand what was at stake. Maybe he didn’t care. 

Or maybe he thought they were strong enough to withstand it. 

She flinched as her wand buzzed, a reminder of the meeting she had in five minutes with Robards and Farrah North, the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation. There wasn’t time to dissect his motives or plot a path forward. Not with her afternoon. She gathered up her folders and tucked a self-inking quill into the mess of her curls. 

Troubleshooting her secret relationship would just have to wait until the end of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Friday, February 2_

Miserable, Draco dropped his head into his hands and swallowed a mouthful of saliva. _Another_ mouthful. Far from the expected, pre-lunch salivation, his glands had been working overtime for the past hour. 

The olfactory odyssey had started early this morning, with the complex, loamy aroma of wet soil. The dark, textured scent had been eventually undercut by the sharp, chlorophyllic smell of cut leaves. Next, a musty odor—not unpleasant, but pungent, like rising bread, strong beer, or casks of red wine aging in a damp cellar. About an hour later, he and the rest of the office had been wrinkling their noses at strong, vinegar undertones, but that was quickly forgotten when the air filled with the rich and intoxicating aroma of roasting beans. Like coffee, but different. Sweet and somehow familiar. He had been trying to place it, but now he knew for certain. 

Chocolate. 

The entire office swam with it, the fragrance so heavy it was like Magical Maintenance had piped it in directly from the manufacturer. It wasn’t the smell of the processed American confection, that cheap garbage which hardly deserved the label of chocolate. Nor was it the pressed and packaged sweets sold by Honeydukes. No, this was the good stuff. The small-batch, hand-harvested, carefully tempered pieces of edible art available only at boutique shops. 

The ever-shifting bouquet had sent Draco’s mind spinning as he tried to guess the pairings of flavor and chocolate. There was a sharp, herbaceous smell that might have been mint, or could have been basil, but either way worked wonderfully with dark chocolate. The natural smell of pollen and sweet flowers brought to mind a rose or lavender ganache. The deep, so-thick-he-could-almost-taste-it sweetness of caramel juxtaposed neatly with milk chocolate and the fresh, light scent of pear. Or was that apple? 

Draco moaned as his stomach growled. “I can’t work like this.” 

“It is quite distracting, listening to you attempt digestion,” Theo said with a look askance. 

“I meant the smell.” 

Theo shrugged. “Never been a chocolate fan.” 

Draco lifted his head from his hands. “ _What_?” 

“Never cared for it.” With a challenging smirk, Theo added: “It’s overrated.” 

“Being your deskmate is overrated,” Draco said. “But as offensive as I find your opinion, it’s also your loss. More chocolate for the rest of us.” 

As if conjured, a black box with a silver bow appeared on Draco’s desk. Next to it was a small, white card. 

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Expecting something?” 

Mystery boxes were rare at the Ministry. Incoming deliveries underwent a rigorous screening courtesy of the talented wizards down in Shipping and Receiving. If the package passed inspection, a confirmatory note was sent to the recipient and a delivery time arranged. 

Draco shook his head; he hadn’t received a note. “Must be internal.” 

He tapped the box with his wand, casting the standard Curse, Hex, and Jinx diagnostics. The box appeared safe, so Draco repeated the process with the card. Also safe. He read the card to himself on the first pass, then aloud for Theo’s benefit. 

“ _Roses are red / Violets are blue / I know this gift / Is as sweet as you_.” 

Theo’s hazel eyes widened with horror. He held out his hand, and Draco passed the card. 

“Unsigned,” Theo noted. “Pity, as I’d love to mock the writer.” 

“Could you do better?” Draco asked, untying the silver bow. 

Theo gave him a haughty look. “Of course. I was classically trained.” 

“I’m sure.” He lifted the box’s lid and gasped. “Oh my sweet Circe…” 

The box of 25 bonbons came with no tasting guide, but Draco couldn’t imagine disliking a single one. Squat squares stamped with geometric patterns. Perfect globes sprinkled delicately with flecks of sea salt or topped with colored rounds. A couple of misshapen truffles dusted with what could only have been cocoa powder. 

“These look expensive,” Theo said. 

“They look delicious.” 

“Granger must really like you.” 

Draco schooled his expression into neutrality. “The card was unsigned.” 

“Yes, but who else would’ve bothered?” 

“Plenty of people!” Draco insisted, manufacturing an aggrieved dudgeon. 

“Listen, mate, we all know—”

“You might _think_ you know—” 

“Oh, there she is.” 

Draco spun in his chair, but Hermione wasn’t behind him, at her desk, or even crossing the office. He clenched his jaw, and Theo snickered. 

“You’re an arse,” Draco announced. 

“And you’re in deeper than I thought.” Theo’s eyes twinkled, his uncanny knack for reading people not only functioning but functioning well. “Meeting her for lunch today?” 

Draco weighed his options. One: admit to a relationship with Hermione, endure Theo’s jibes, and force him into an Unbreakable Vow to guarantee his silence. Two: deny a relationship with Hermione, endure Theo’s jibes, and stew in silence to maintain the guise of denial. 

Option one at least gave him some control over the situation. 

“Not today,” he admitted, eyeing the chocolates. “She’s planning this year’s audit schedule with Robards. I didn’t even see her for breakfast this morning, and they’re working through lunch.” 

“You owe her a proper thank you for those.” 

“She’ll get one. Only…” He sighed. “We talked, and she said she didn’t want anything. We agreed to skip Valentine’s Day this year.” 

“And you _believed_ her?” 

“Of course,” Draco replied, surprised. “Why would she lie?” 

It was Theo’s turn to heave a sigh. He leaned forward and folded his hands into a prayer position, as if preparing to dispense cosmic wisdom. 

“Granger didn’t lie,” Theo explained. “She _sacrificed_. The woman is two steps ahead of everyone. She knew this corporate, money-grab excuse for a holiday was approaching, added the context of your—” He waved a vague hand towards Draco. “—whatever this is, and decided to simplify the situation for you. For you _both_ ,” he amended, before Draco could interrupt. “But mostly for you, considering the holiday’s gendered rituals.” 

“I don’t think—” 

“Of course you don’t. She already knows that.” 

Draco glared; Theo’s grave expression remained unchanged. 

“Hermione doesn’t work that way,” Draco said. “She’s not like other women.” 

“True. With another woman, you would’ve known straight off that she was full of shite. But you took Granger at her word, which she expected. She did not expect you to look _beyond_ her words to understand her true intentions. In other words, she did not expect you to _think_.” 

Draco took a moment to work through the logic and found it depressingly sound. His heart fell. 

“I’ve cocked this up already, haven’t I?” 

“You would have done, if not for me,” Theo said. “Now that we know, we can course correct. Never fear: with my help, you’ll be scandalizing your parents and shocking the nation with your unlikely affair by the vernal equinox.”

He clapped Draco on the shoulder. It felt, strangely, like the fall of a headsman’s axe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chocolate in this chapter is inspired heavily by the chocolates of Éclat, a boutique chocolate shop near my house that I am low-key obsessed with. Probably not even that low-key, to be honest; the proprietor and several sales people know me and my husband on sight. Take a look at what they offer, but heed this warning: _they ship_. https://eclatchocolate.com/tasting-guide/


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_Monday, February 5_

It didn’t bode well for the remainder of the year that a day off in early February felt well-deserved. But as Hermione stood bundled at the entrance to the Diagon Alley Gringotts, she knew that her personal holiday was justified. 

Professionally, this year promised to be difficult. The Ministry had only recently started caring about _how_ it did its work, and her responsibility—trying to manage workplace compliance while revising, though more often _creating_ , the procedures with which they were to remain in compliance—was already facing substantial resistance. She’d expected the pushback from employees; any change, especially one that required more paperwork, was not going to be accepted without complaint. But the resistance from above? From the Minister’s own cabinet? 

Eyes unfocused, she did not see the impact coming until it was too late. Ginny Weasley threw her arms around Hermione so enthusiastically that they both almost toppled. 

“Ginny!” Hermione said, catching her balance. 

As a Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, the youngest Weasley had been traveling with the team since the beginning of their season. Though their midseason break had started before Christmas, press tours and promotional events had kept her on the road until early January. She was due back for practice next week. 

“I know I interrupted a deep thought, but I don’t care!” Ginny said, steadying herself on Hermione’s shoulders. “There will be plenty of time for reflection at the spa. You ready?” 

She shoved an empty tin of beans into Hermione’s hand and didn’t wait for an answer, yelling, “ _Portus_!” the moment Hermione grabbed hold. 

The melting snow that had stuck to their boots in London was nothing compared to the several inches they sank into upon landing in Iceland. The frigid temperature struck like a hammer. Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, pulling her parka tight. 

“We couldn’t have done a spa in England?” 

“Not when the Harpies are paying for it,” Ginny said with a wink. “Iceland is far more exclusive, and Cleo Bash—she’s one of our Beaters, you know—hasn’t shut up about the _regenerative properties_ of the thermal baths since she visited last summer.” 

They trudged through the snow to the entrance of Krauma, a Muggle spa with a chic, modern aesthetic that looked somehow at home against Iceland’s snow-covered valleys and rolling hills. A rush of warm, humid air enveloped them as they entered. 

“You dragged me all the way to Iceland to call a bluff?” 

“And to relax and heal and chat. For two, under Weasley, please,” Ginny said to the receptionist. Then, turning back to Hermione: “Harry told me there’s a lot to catch up on.” Her suggestive grin made Hermione feel as though she had walked into a trap. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Okay,” Ginny said as they followed a spa attendee to the locker room. “I can wait until we’re in private.” 

They showered and changed into their swimwear, then headed toward the private geothermal bath. Ginny plunged into the hot water with a squeal while Hermione eased in one aching inch at a time. Once they were both settled and had taken a bracing shot of _brennivín_ , Ginny sprung the trap in earnest. 

“Who is he?” 

Hermione kept her head tipped against the rolled towel and shut her eyes, willing the lie to sound true. Just this once. 

“There is no _he_.” 

“Harry told me about the card.” 

Hermione cracked an eye open. “Oh?” 

“The pink one with the question mark and the embarrassing attempt at poetry.”

As if she’d needed reminding. 

“It’s none of Harry’s business,” Hermone replied primly. “Or yours.” 

“Bollocks.” Ginny nudged Hermione with her foot from across the pool. “Even if he hadn’t told me, I’d have known something was different. You seem… happy.” 

“Wow, thanks,” Hermione said in a deadpan. 

“You know what I mean. You saw him over the weekend, didn’t you?” 

Hermione bit her lip. She’d seen Draco on Saturday night. They’d met for drinks in an obscure, Muggle pub in Wiltshire, Apparated back to her flat, and had a very nice shag on her couch. The subject of Valentine’s Day had been mutually and explicitly avoided. 

“It will be quicker and less painful if you just tell me,” Ginny said. “You know I won’t drop it, and we’ve got private rooms and full service booked for eight hours, so—”

“It’s Draco,” Hermione blurted. She chanced a look at Ginny, whose mouth hung open as if she’d just been Confunded. “Draco Malfoy.” 

A wave of water surged toward her as Ginny lunged across the pool. “What other bloody Draco is there?” she shouted with a giggle. “Draco sodding _Malfoy_!” 

“You can’t tell anyone.” 

“Oh, I just _knew_ it had to be someone good!” 

“You’re not upset?” 

“Upset!” She snapped her fingers, summoning a bottle of champagne and two flutes. “I’ve been waiting for him to shag one of my friends for _years_! I’ve always been curious—don’t tell Harry—but I never thought it’d be you!” 

“Thanks again…” 

“But it does make a certain kind of sense. You’ve always had a thing for projects.” 

“I haven’t!”

Ginny started counting on her fingers. “House-elves. Ron. McLaggen.” 

“Krum,” Hermione supplied, in her own defense. 

“An exception that proves the rule.” 

Hermione sighed and took the proffered drink. Ginny had a point. None of her past relationships had been easy. Krum had attended a different school and lived in a different country, which were insurmountable obstacles for a fifteen year old. With Ron, proximity had masqueraded as love, but once they were out of the camp tent and living like adults, they’d agreed that they were too dissimilar for a lifetime commitment. 

Draco worked at the Ministry. He lived in Britain. He liked to read and stargaze and discuss Arithmancy theory. He seemed to understand her, or at least think it worth his time to try. By all accounts, being with him should have been easy. 

So why were they starting to feel complicated? Was it the risk of exposure? The pressure of the upcoming holiday? Her own fear of commitment and rejection? Of trying and failing? 

Ginny gave Hermione’s shoulder a shake. Her brown eyes had lost some of their manic excitement, softening in concern. 

“I’m here to help, Hermione. You should let me.” 

Hermione nodded and lifted her glass to meet Ginny’s. 

“To clever women and oblivious men,” Ginny said. “May Fate continue to find ways to bring the two together, despite their best efforts at resistance.” 

They clinked, sipped, and then Ginny leaned back, looking as content as a cat who had found the source of all cream. 

“Tell me everything,” she said, settling in and letting her legs float in the mineral-rich water. “When did this all start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krauma spa is a real place: https://krauma.is/en/


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Tuesday, February 6_

Draco glared across the office, his narrowed eyes focused on a beautiful array of tropical flowers. At the center was a massive king protea, it’s pale pink petals just beginning to fan. Surrounded by dusky fern fronds, cream-colored lilies, and trailing, white orchids, it was a bouquet fit for a bride. 

And Draco hated it. 

“She skive off lunch again?” Theo asked. He didn’t bother following Draco’s eyes, and Draco didn’t bother playing dumb. The whole office had seen the bouquet when it appeared yesterday, and the rumors of Hermione’s secret admirer had spread like Dragon Pox through a primary school. 

“Tuesdays are for Potter and Weasley,” Draco said, not without some bitterness. “And she didn’t skive off yesterday. Weasley was in town, and they just got back to England this morning. She missed breakfast.” 

Theo made an appreciative sound in the back of his throat. “Ginny… That woman can handle a broom.” 

Draco gave him the side-eye. “Don’t bother. She’s with Potter.” 

“For now.” 

“I’d like to see that duel.” 

“Wouldn’t be much of one. Potter might be in line for Head Auror, but that just means people will follow him. He’s a piss-poor spell caster. Nice touch with the flowers, by the way.” Theo gave a lazy nod toward the bouquet. “Too bad she wasn’t in to receive them.” 

Draco’s scowl returned, as did his attempts to wandlessly set the greenery ablaze. “They aren’t mine.” 

This caught Theo’s attention. “Come again?” 

“I didn’t send them.” 

A beat of silence passed before Theo voiced the question that had been plaguing Draco for over twenty-four hours: “Who did?” 

Before Draco could hazard a guess, an exaggerated gasp of delight pierced the office’s relative calm. Carol the Admin stood at Hermione’s desk, practically swooning. 

“What a _lovely_ bouquet!” A be-ringed hand darted out to fluff at the flowers, then found a home over her heart. She scanned her surroundings and, apparently satisfied that she had attracted the attention of the entire office, dabbed at her eyes with a pink handkerchief. “Take note, gentlemen: chivalry isn’t dead yet!” 

She hurried off with mincing steps, still blotting at her eyes, and Draco’s scowl deepened as several faces turned to look at him. Some, like Xi Zhu from the Improper Use of Magic Office, gave him wide grins. Others, like Charles Post and Hugh Luks from MLE Patrol, nodded, like they were all in on the joke. Jerry O’Riordan, one of the Auror Office’s field agents, had the nerve to give him a wink and a thumbs up.

Draco felt close to murderous as he admitted, “I don’t know.” 

“Did you read the card?” 

“And invade her privacy?” 

“Fair point. I’ll do it.” 

Theo was up before Draco could do much more than extend a staying hand, though the attempt was half-hearted. He wanted to know. While he and Hermione hadn’t explicitly stated exclusivity, Draco couldn’t fathom being with anyone else. She was more than enough. 

She was _everything_. 

He watched as Theo casually crossed the office, palmed his wand, and engaged Tracy Harrison, whose desk was in front of Hermione’s, in conversation. Theo stayed only long enough to tap his wand against the note, though Tracy’s crestfallen expression indicated that he could have stayed much longer. 

Draco had a scrap of parchment waiting, and when Theo returned, he tapped his wand against its surface. A curly script appeared: 

_Roses are red  
Violets are blue  
These pretty flowers  
Are rubbish compared to you._

“Un- _fucking_ -signed.” Draco balled the parchment in his fist. 

“This poetry is dreadful. Is _you_ the only word that rhymes with _blue_?” 

“Not the point,” Draco said between clenched teeth. “ _Someone_ sent her those flowers.” 

Theo’s grin turned mischievous. “Afraid of a little competition?” 

“Nott, I swear to Circe, if this is you—”

“It’s not,” he said. “I’m much more creative with my verse. Nothing less than iambic pentameter would do for the object of my affections.” Draco rolled his eyes; Theo continued. “Consider the facts: Granger is an attractive woman, and you are not the only man on the planet—or in this office, apparently—who wants a piece. Even if she had lost interest, I don’t peg her as the unfaithful sort. She’d have the decency to let you down easy. But if you want to keep her, you have to up your game.” 

“Speaking of which, I’ve been thinking—”

“At last.” 

“And I’m still not sure if giving Hermione gifts is the way to go.” 

Theo’s expression fell. “Come again?” 

“You don’t know her like I do, Theo. We _agreed_. We were going to skip this mad holiday and leave things as they are. I can’t control what some other admirer might be doing, but I can keep my own conscience clean.” 

“Since when have you had a conscience?” 

“ _Nott_.”

“But the chocolates—”

“That was her decision.” 

Theo leaned back in his chair. “And you’re okay with being doted on without returning the favor?” 

He wasn’t. Not in the slightest. Nevertheless… 

“We agreed. Besides, I don’t want this to escalate. Maybe if she doesn’t get anything in return, she’ll stop on her own.” 

Just then, a bottle of wine appeared on Draco’s desk. A ribbon with a plain, white card was looped around its neck. 

Theo turned to Draco with a smug grin. “What was that about escalation?” 

“For fuck’s sake.” Draco reached for the bottle. 

Theo lifted the note from its neck and read aloud: “ _Roses are red / Violets are blue / There’s enough wine in this bottle / To share over a dinner for two_. At least she changed the rhyming scheme.”

If the poetry hadn’t been enough to sour Draco’s stomach, this newest gift was. The bottle was a Shiraz, a five-year-old vintage from a vineyard called Vergelegen. Draco remembered that year: there had been a drought in South Africa and, though the harvest had been small, the terroir was wonderfully pronounced. Hermione couldn’t possibly have known the importance of this vintage. He didn’t know how she could’ve ignored the price. 

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Draco said. “I didn’t send her those flowers, but she sent me this wine?”

“She doesn’t know that you didn’t send the flowers.” Theo was finally starting to look troubled. “If she thinks you did…” 

“But this is…” Draco looked back at the label. “Gifts should be reciprocal, equally valuable. This far exceeds the value of the bouquet.” 

“Maybe she doesn’t see it that way,” Theo said, his voice suddenly soft and contemplative. “Maybe, instead of seeing Galleons, she sees something that you’ll like. Maybe to her, that’s worth any price.” 

Draco’s stomach sank. He felt lost and unsure, undone by a holiday that he didn’t even care about and a woman he unquestionably did. “I don’t deserve her.” 

“I could’ve told you that.” 

“What do I do?” 

Theo’s gaze was steady as he dispensed his advice: “Lie.” 

Draco’s jaw dropped. “ _What_?” 

“She thinks you’re giving her these gifts? Brilliant. Until someone says otherwise, you are.” 

“But—” 

“You take all the credit and look like an amazing boyfriend while your well-endowed rival wastes his money on an unachievable conquest. He might be a beggar by the time this is all over, and then what chance does he have against you?” 

Draco frowned, a feeling of disaster forming over his head like thunderclouds on the horizon. As if on cue, the office lights dimmed, then flashed in faux-lightning. Draco was quick with his wand, casting an Imperturbable Charm above his and Theo’s desks seconds before the daily deluge began. Groans and curses across the office indicated that sharp reflexes weren’t an employee requirement. 

“I don’t want to lie to her,” Draco said over the pounding rain, Transfiguring his boots into galoshes and nabbing his rubbish bin before it floated away. 

Theo reclined, putting his feet on his desk to keep them off the flooding floor. “Then don’t think of it as a lie. Think of it as…” He waved his hand, searching for the correct turn of phrase. “...withholding privileged information from an interested party.” 

“I don’t think I can.” 

Theo hit him with a deadpan stare. “You’re a MLE detective. Withholding information is practically your livelihood.” 

Draco glared, but Theo cut him off before he could argue the point. 

“You’re halfway to V-Day,” his friend said. “If you can’t keep your mouth shut and paste a grin on for a week, then you shouldn’t be working for the government.” Thunder rumbled, as if in agreement. 

“Sod off.” 

“You know I’m right. Now…” Theo scanned the office with narrowed eyes, watching as their coworkers wrung out sodden robes and binned ruined parchment. “Which one of these bastards is trying to get into Granger’s private library?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergelegen is a real place: http://www.vergelegen.co.za/home.html


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Wednesday, February 7_

Hermione sent a pair of lovebirds winging away and studiously ignored the opposite end of the office as she rose for tea and a stretch break. Carol’s modified memos, while twice as dangerous as the normal ones (this month’s metrics on office-related injuries already threatened to tank their three-year improvement streak), were nevertheless considerably more accurate. She didn’t have to worry about them getting lost or intercepted which, considering the language they contained, also meant she didn’t have to worry about getting fired. 

She took her time filling her mug and meandered casually to Draco’s desk. Far from the picture of composure, she found him pink-cheeked and scrambling. His eyes widened when he saw her, and he swiveled his chair to face Theo. 

“Nott, I need a quill.” 

Theo was reclined in his chair, his head buried in a field manual. Or what looked to be a field manual. His knowledge of procedure rivalled hers, and she’d seen him carrying the latest _Norman Steg, P.I._ novel into the office more than once. 

“No,” he answered, without looking up. 

“Nott. A _quill_.” 

“That’d be misappropriation of office equipment.” Theo turned a page.

Draco scowled and reached for his colleague’s inkpot. 

Theo’s hazel eyes flicked up from the book. “Don’t you… Oh, Granger.” He closed the book and sat up, the drama before him apparently more interesting than what was on the page. “It _is_ Wednesday, isn’t it?” 

Hermione felt heat enter her cheeks. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Well, last Wednesday, you had a question on his intel report. The Wednesday before that you needed his input on a field deviation, then it was, hold on…” He lifted his blotter and withdrew a piece of parchment. “Another intel report query and, _oh my_ , a mission debrief.” He looked up at her with a sly smile. “Was it a good _debriefing_?”

Draco snatched the list from his friend’s hand. “You’ve been keeping _track_?”

“For historical purposes,” Theo said with a shrug. “I’m sure I’ll be throwing you a stag do and writing a speech eventually. Best to make it accurate.” 

Hermione blanched; Draco pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Not to worry,” he continued with a wink. “I made copies.” 

“You’d better make a Horcrux,” Draco seethed, “because I’m going to murder you.” 

“Looking forward to it.” Theo opened his desk drawer and held out a quill, feather-end first. “Anyway, here’s your quill. You two have fun.”

Hermione, feeling very much like she’d just stepped in quicksand, turned and left with as much dignity as she could. Draco followed at her elbow. They maintained their silence until the conference room door was locked and soundproofed. 

She set her mug down and leaned against the table, arms crossed. Draco mirrored her stance against the door. 

“So,” he started, his tone hovering between contrite and peeved. “Theo knows.” 

Hermione wanted to be angry. She wanted to scold his carelessness, guilt him into feeling even a fraction of the fear and humiliation she’d felt at being ambushed like that. Instead, she bit her tongue and took a breath. Hypocrisy wasn’t her style. 

“Ginny does, too,” she admitted. 

Draco nodded, absorbing the information. “Is she upset?” 

Hermione huffed a laugh. “No, she’s delighted. Made me give her all the details.” 

“ _All_ the details?” He asked with a raised brow. 

“Some,” she corrected, quirking a grin. “I let her imagination do most of the work.”

“Should I expect Harpies tickets in my post?” 

“More like an invitation to a thermal pool.” They shared a tense laugh, Hermione’s trailing into a sigh. “How’s Theo taking it?” 

“Like a right arse,” he said, voice clipped. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed. “But supportive,” he ceded. “He never bought into the blood purity shite the way the rest of us did.” 

“His skepticism of corporate incentives started young,” Hermione remarked. 

“If only we’d all been so lucky.” Draco abandoned his spot on the wall in favor of one next to her. “It’s not ideal. Maybe we weren’t careful enough.” 

She bit her tongue at the use of the plural pronoun. If he hadn’t sent that bloody card, then Harry and Ron wouldn’t have seen, Ginny would’ve been none the wiser, and they’d only have to deal with one person knowing instead of two. Two-and-a-half if she counted Harry and Ron’s combined suspicions. 

She was tempted to bring it up, the card and the flowers, but the timing felt wrong. She didn’t want the situation to escalate any further. Better to focus on one problem at a time. 

“There’s nothing we can do about Theo and Ginny,” she decided. “As for us…” Beside her, Draco tensed. “You’re right. We need to be more careful. No one else can know.” 

“Why?” 

A bolt of adrenaline raced down her spine, and her neck popped as she turned to look at him. His expression was as brittle as his query, annoyed and exasperated. 

“Because we work together,” she said. “Because people will talk—”

“People are already talking.” 

“I don’t want to complicate things.” 

“Maintaining this secret isn’t complicating things?” 

Her eyes stung; she looked away from him. 

It _was_ complicating things. The fear of judgment felt like a yoke across her back, but she had data now. Two people had found out, and two people were happy for them. It was hardly a conclusive data set—little better than anecdotal evidence, in fact—but damned if the burden didn’t feel lighter for it. Maybe they could do this. Maybe they could do more than drink and shag. 

Maybe they could date. 

Draco sighed and reached for her hand. “There’s no rush,” he said.

Hermione recognized the apology and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She leaned her head against Draco’s shoulder and closed her eyes, content to just breathe with him. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and Hermione knew they were okay. 

Until later that night, when she was suddenly sure they weren’t. 

“Ginny, I’m telling you…” Hermione exhaled a mouthful of ash, her head stuck in the Floo grate for an emergency call. “I don’t know what this means.” 

Ginny rubbed her temples. “Tell me again. What, _exactly_ , was in the basket?” 

“Two candles, light pink, scented _Flamingo Beach_. Three bars of soap shaped to look like birds: one toucan, one kingfisher, and one cassowary, I think. One terrycloth robe. One bottle of lotion, one bottle of bath wash, and one bath bomb, scented _Magic in the Air_ , whatever that means. And one hydrating facial mask with snail mucin.” 

Ginny shuddered. “Maybe he thinks you’re stressed?” 

“I mean, I am, but how is a bunch of fancy soap supposed help? Do I smell?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Is my hygiene lacking?” 

“Not that I’ve noticed.” 

“And why the hell would I apply anything containing the words _snail mucin_ to my face?” 

“Haven’t the foggiest. You saw him today, right?” 

“Yes. We—” Ginny’s eyes widened with excitement. “We hugged,” 

“And he wasn’t acting unusually off-put?” 

“ _Ginny_.”

The redhead rolled her eyes and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “He’s _rich_ , Hermione. That’s bound to come with some eccentricities.”

Hermione bit her lip. The excuse felt like a stretch, but she didn’t know many rich people, and the Malfoys had a fortune that many—including her—considered borderline criminal. She had grown up in the middle class. The Weasleys were famously broke, and Harry, while he might’ve had a healthy inheritance, grew up abused and ignorant of his fortune. Maybe bathing rituals were an income-based difference she’d never guessed at. 

“I need to ask him about this.”

“No!” Hermione jumped, hitting her head on the grate as Ginny lunged from her chair and dropped to her knees before the hearth. “You can’t let him know that you know it’s him.” 

“But—”

“The card. Re-read the card.”

Hermione sighed and recited the four lines from memory. “ _Roses are red / violets are blue / my interest in you / is hard to misconstrue_.” 

“Despite the fact that this particular gift is actually quite easy to misconstrue, he’s obviously having fun with this. Spoiling the game would spoil the fun.” 

“I don’t think I’m having fun.” 

“Not today, maybe, but what about with the card at the beginning?” 

“That was sweet,” Hermione conceded. 

“And the flammable flowers?” 

“I don’t think he intended for them to spontaneously combust, but it did make the afternoon pass quickly.” 

“And it was kind,” Ginny added. “He missed the mark on this one, yes, but I think he deserves points for trying. Harry’s never bothered with a series of gifts, nevermind attempting verse.” 

Hermione bit back a grin. “You might’ve scared him off poetry in second year.” 

Ginny sat back on her heels and glared. “Har har. Give him a pass on this one, Hermione. I’m signing off now. Mum wants help with dinner. Keep me posted.” 

“Like you’d let me go a day without an update.” 

Ginny grinned. “Natch.” 

The grate shut, the connection closed, and Hermione pulled her head from the Floo, breathing through the dizziness that always accompanied a Firecall. She looked at the thematically appropriate bath basket beside her and felt her heart clenched. He’d clearly put thought into it. He’d tried. 

But why had he tried at all? Why hadn’t he trusted her when she insisted that Valentine’s Day wasn’t important? She didn’t want his gifts or his money. She wanted something much more valuable: his time.

Or maybe she’d misunderstood him from the start. Maybe Valentine’s Day was important to Draco in a way she didn’t see, and her insistence that he treat it with a blasé attitude hurt him. Maybe her request to skip the holiday had been selfish. 

Or maybe she was being ungrateful. The bath basket didn’t have to be a referendum on her personal hygiene. Perhaps these were simply the scents he favored, and this was an easy, conflict-free, low-risk way of telling her. 

Or maybe this was his way of trying to bring her up to his standards, someone he’d be proud to have meet his mother. 

Hermione unclenched her fist and reached for a bottle of lotion. She clicked the top open and held it to her nose. _Magic in the Air_ smelled nothing like the magic she knew; there was nary a hint of ozone, smoke, or singed hair. It was certainly more scent than she usually wore. She crinkled her nose. Strong, too. 

With a resigned sigh, she returned the lotion to the basket and brought the entire kit into her bathroom. If these products were important enough for him to gift, then the least she could do was try them. 

After all, what was a relationship without some compromise?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scents _Flamingo Beach_ and _Magic in the Air_ exist as actual, commercially sold products. Per the proprietor’s website, _Flamingo Beach_ smells like “Pink Summer Berries, Juicy Orange, Dewy White Petals with Essential Oils.” _Magic in the Air_ smells like “A wondrous blend of almond flower, sparkling persimmon, white iris, whipped vanilla bourbon & fluffy sandalwood.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Thursday, February 8_

Draco hated mornings. 

He hated being roused from easy sleep by his wand’s insistent pinging. He hated how cold his bedroom was compared to the downy duvet of his bed. Merlin forbid his slippers weren’t where he needed them and his bare feet had to touch the hardwood floors; that was the first portent of an irredeemably bad day. 

The shower wasn’t terrible, but the process of preparing for work—choosing which set of grey slacks went with which Oxford went with which black robe; picking up the lunch his personal house-elf had prepared; having to use the Floo System—were indignities he tolerated only because he knew what, or more accurately, _who_ , was waiting for him on the other side. 

Hermione stood in her usual spot near the magically enhanced ficus. She held two to-go cups of tea, and her face lit up when she saw him. He used to think that was just a silly cliché, a poet’s exaggeration, until he’d witnessed a smile obliterate her blank, waiting expression and a sparkle enter her pretty brown eyes. 

Seeing her see him for the first time was his favorite part of each day, and he had to count his steps to keep from sprinting to her. 

She handed him his tea and looked into his eyes with unusual intensity, as if waiting for something. 

“Morning,” he said, measured and delicately suspicious. 

They’d ended yesterday on somewhat uneven footing. Draco had let his frustration at their current situation slip. Their secret relationship, the mystery suitor, and his uncertainty regarding what, if anything, he should be doing about it had nearly forced Hermione into a decision. One he wasn’t certain would be made in his favor. 

“Good morning.” She craned her neck, brushed her curly hair off her shoulder, and paused, eyes wide, head cocked. 

Draco was at a loss. Usually he couldn’t resist an open neck, but to kiss her in the Atrium, as the Floos were lighting and the morning crowd began filtering in, felt far too public. They’d agreed on increased discretion yesterday, not less. 

Hadn’t they?

He stared at her; she stared back. The awkward silence grew unbearable. 

“So… Ready for breakfast?”

Hermione sighed, her shoulders sagged. Nevertheless, she nodded and took her place before him in the queue. 

Draco stepped in behind her and wrinkled his nose. The Atrium’s café, a newer establishment aptly named Cuppa, was run by two wizards. Gideon was the brewmaster, and only Draco’s personal elf could make a comparable cup of Darjeeling. This alone would have brought in customers, but the addition of his partner Bashar’s dough-based talents established the café’s reputation as a morning staple. 

Though Draco had yet to have a bad pastry, whatever the talented wizard was working on today might have gone off. Cuppa’s usual aromas of earthy coffee, spicy tea, and delicate fruit were undercut with a heavy, sickly-sweet odor. Like an old almond Danish had been soaked in cheap whisky, rolled in a tin of fresh potpourri, and set aflame.

The stench followed them through the Atrium and into the lift, the cloying smell concentrated by the tight space. Hermione shot him a coy look over her shoulder and pressed against him. Then she flipped her hair, and Draco’s gorge rose. 

It was her. 

Hermione had chosen the most atrocious perfume. Or mix of perfumes, more likely, as the ability to store that many unpleasant odors in one vial was probably beyond the grasp of modern Potioneering. Draco tipped his nose to the ceiling, gasping for fresh air, but it was everywhere, overpowering. He could practically taste the manufactured vanilla, like a slick film across his palate. 

He held his breath until the lift jerked to a stop, then shoved his way onto Level Two, ignoring the disgruntled mutterings of those he elbowed. He gasped an inhale before Hermione caught his arm. 

She looked up at him with a furrowed brow. “Are you okay?” 

He nodded and plastered on a tight smile. “Just ready to start the day. Going to be a busy one,” he said on the exhale.

“Will you have time for lunch?” 

He wanted to say yes but didn’t know if he could stomach food around her. Even his croissant had become unappealing, and he loved Bashar’s home-harvested honey. 

“Meetings all day.” He felt his cheeks turn red; he was running out of oxygen. “Will catch up with you later.” 

“Okay.” A frown tugged at her mouth. “Draco?” 

He’d made it two steps before stopping, simultaneously grateful for the distance and guilty for the gratitude. 

“You would tell me if something were wrong, wouldn’t you?” 

He swallowed thickly. “Of course.” 

It sounded like a lie, even to him. 

“Not like I’d need to,” he continued, his voice too high-pitched to be reassuring. “What could ever be wrong?” 

She hardly looked comforted. “And about Valentine’s Day… We’re still agreed, right? We’re not going to do anything? No gifts?” 

“Agreed.” His gaze slid to Theo. His friend’s eyes were narrowed, as if trying to lipread. “No gifts.” 

“But you’d tell me.” She stepped closer; Draco almost choked. “You’d tell me if that wasn’t okay. If you’d changed your mind.” 

“Yes, but I haven’t, and I’m sorry Hermione, but Theo needs me and I’ve really got to go.” 

“Theo?” 

But Draco had already made his escape across the office, turning his ankle on a rock in his haste and soaking his right shoe and sock in the burbling stream. He squelched the rest of the way to his desk. 

“Is she still looking?” 

Theo’s eyes flicked away and back. “Yes. She seems suspicious.” 

“Shite.” 

“What did you do?” 

“It’s what she’s done, if you’ll believe it.”

Theo paused a moment, then said, “I don’t.” 

Draco gathered a self-inking quill and a roll of fresh parchment. “If anyone asks, I’m in meetings all day.” 

“Avoiding her won’t fix things.” 

“No, but at least it won’t make me sick.” 

Draco cut back across the stream, past Carol the Admin’s _Heart of Darkness_ desk décor, and holed himself up in the smallest conference room with the glitchiest Floo. 

He spent the entire morning barricaded and took his lunch alone. Shortly after one p.m., he inked a pair of memos, both addressed to Theo to guarantee his friend’s sightedness. 

About an hour later, Theo deigned to arrive. 

“What do the phrases _Come quickly_ and _I need you now_ mean to you, Nott?” Draco snapped after he’d closed the door. 

“They sound like the beginnings of a compelling Human and Being Resources case.” Theo took a seat and nodded toward the object of Draco’s panic: a large basket full of personal hygiene items. “Today’s gift, I assume?” 

He tossed Theo the card, filled with the all-too-familiar curlicue script. 

“ _Roses are red / Violets are blue / I want to run my fingers through your hair / Using this shampoo_.” 

They shared a look, Theo’s expression one of unmistakable disgust. 

“Why did she send these?” Draco asked. 

“Maybe you reek?” He gave Theo a withering glare. “What’d she give you, anyway?” 

Theo pulled the basket close and started unpacking it. Two black candles, scented _Noir_. Three bars of soap pressed into the shapes of a jaguar, a bat, and a snake. A silk robe, also black. One bottle each of lotion and body wash, accompanied by a sparkly bath bomb—whatever that was—scented _Graphite_. The last item Theo extracted was an exfoliating shower sponge. 

Silence hung between them, eventually broken by Theo. “Maybe she’s running out of ideas?” 

Draco shook his head. “Something about this doesn’t feel right.”

“Agreed,” Theo said after another moment of thought. “She doesn’t seem like the type to be into water play. _What_?” 

“Get your mind out of the gutter.” 

“It’s in the poem!” 

“That doesn’t give you the right to speculate.” 

“A gentleman can be curious. Someone else in the office certainly is, anyway. What did she get yesterday?” 

“I don’t know,” Draco said, frowning, “but this morning she was wearing the most atrocious perfume…” 

He reached for a candle, popped the lid, and was immediately assailed by the strong scent of vanilla. The same, sickly-sweet odor that had hung like a miasma around Hermione this morning. He set the candle down. 

“What if… What if she’s not sending the gifts?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I smelled this same vanilla on Hermione this morning. What if she was sent a similar basket yesterday?” 

Theo, who had been sniffing the lotion bottle, set it down and picked up the candle. Draco watched as his friend tested the theory, his hazel eyes growing unfocused as he worked through the possibilities. After a moment, he shook his head. 

“I don’t think so. It’s more likely that she did some shopping for you and treated herself as well.” 

“But why the sudden change? She’s never worn this much scent before.” 

Theo rolled his shoulders in a careless shrug. “Say something, if it bothers you that much.” 

Draco recoiled at the thought. The scent did bother him, but confronting her with a hygiene issue was worse. _Much_ worse. 

“Forget it,” he said, repacking the basket. “A fat load of help you were.” 

“I take it that you’ll come in tomorrow smelling like _Graphite_?” 

“Why do I talk to you?” 

“Because you’d have no one otherwise. Speaking of losing companions, have you thought of a gift for Hermione yet? A _real_ gift,” he clarified, with a flippant wave at the basket. “These don’t count.” 

In fact, he had. “A first edition of _Hogwarts: A History_ ,” Draco muttered, balling up the black silk robe. 

“Good choice,” Theo said with an approving nod. “Safe.” 

Draco’s stomach twisted. Though he still wasn’t thrilled by the idea of giving Hermione a gift in the first place, he’d intended for the book to be heartfelt and thoughtful. Not _safe_. Because _safe_ wasn’t going to impress her. _Safe_ wasn’t going to keep her. 

But he thought he knew what would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, these are commercially available scents. _Noir_ is described as “Black Cardamom, Smoky Vanilla, A Hint of Musk with Essential Oils” and _Graphite_ is “A bold, invigorating blend of sage, bergamot spice & leather woods.” No, I don’t know what “leather woods” smell like—please leave your theory in the comments!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're speeding toward the end with some shorter chapters, so you guys get two today. :D

**Chapter 8**

_Friday, February 9_

“Read it again!” Ginny gasped through peals of laughter. “Read it again!” 

“I’ve never been more excited for you to go back to Quidditch,” Hermione stated, glaring as Ginny wiped tears from her eyes. “And quiet down, will you? Do you want your whole family to hear?” 

“Oh bollocks, that’s a great idea. Oi, Geor—”

An expertly thrown pillow boffed Ginny in the face before she could summon her siblings. That was one of the risks of a Weasley family dinner: secrets rarely stayed that way for long. 

“I swear to Merlin, Ginny, this is _not funny_.” 

“ _Roses are red / Violets are blue / This arrangement_ … Selection? Bouquet? What was it?” 

“ _This selection of meats is meager / Compared to the sausage I’m packing for you_.” 

Ginny doubled over as Hermione reluctantly finished the latest poem. 

“It’s actually quite inappropriate,” Hermione chided, nose in the air. “It arrived at _work_. A bloody package of filets. At work!” 

“Maybe Draco hoped you’d be hungry for his sausage after?” 

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. Her head had been pounding since this morning. Since she’d met Draco—who had reeked like an old leather boot stuffed with wet sawdust—for breakfast and endured an asphyxiating lift ride to Level 2. They’d both come off it gasping and had avoided each other for the rest of the day. 

“Sausage is the last thing on my mind,” she muttered. “Thank the gods this is almost over.” 

“Have you gotten anything for him?” 

She froze, her stomach sinking with dismay. Ginny mirrored her horrified expression. 

“You haven’t _gotten_ him anything?” 

“I haven’t even thought about it!” Panic fizzled through the guilt, amplified her headache, and ratcheted her stress to pre-N.E.W.T. levels. “I’ve been busy, and then with all these weird—” 

“Thoughtful,” Ginny corrected. 

“—gifts, even when we’d agreed not to, I just didn’t think that—” 

“Okay,” Ginny said, raising her hands. “Let’s take a breath here.” 

“—especially when I didn’t even want—”

“Hermione.” Ginny took her by the shoulders and shook lightly, pulling her from the downward spiral. “You’re hardly the first woman to put off her holiday shopping, and Draco is hardly the first man to ignore his girlfriend’s wishes. You’ll get through this.” 

“How?” Hermione asked. She fell back against the couch cushions with a miserable moan. “He has more money than Ploutos. What could he possibly need?” 

“ _Need_ is not the keyword here. Gifts are about wanting. About desire. About… _intriguing meats_.” 

“Ginny!” 

“Are you seeing him this weekend?” 

“No, he’s traveling.” It was technically the truth. In these enlightened times, on the second weekend of the second month, Azkaban opened its narrow and forbidding doors to visitors. Draco was picking up Narcissa in France, then spending the rest of his weekend on a miserable spit of rock in the North Sea. 

“Plenty of time to stroll Diagon, then. You’ll think of something.” 

“What are you getting Harry?” 

“Oh, we’re past all that nonsense,” Ginny said, her sharp grin softening at the thought of the man she loved. “Losing him—or having thought I did, rather—had a way of realigning my priorities. Just being with one another is enough for us both.” 

That was enough for Hermione, too. Clearly, she and Draco weren’t on the same page. 

“ _SUPPER’S ON_!” Molly Weasley’s voice reverberated through The Burrow, which then thundered with the sound of urgent feet. Hermione followed Ginny to the kitchen, her heart heavy and unsure despite the levity around her. 

Perhaps Ginny was right. After the thought, time, and effort Draco had expended over the past two weeks, letting his generosity go unappreciated felt like the definition of entitlement. If she were going to get Draco a gift, it had to be one that felt equal to what he had given her. But not something that could be bought or traded. No, he deserved something meaningful. Something that showed her gratitude for him. Something only she would know to give. 

But what?


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_Monday, February 12_

The cauldron was set square on Draco’s blotter. It was about 75% smaller than a normal cauldron, which made it quite useless, as most brew ingredients couldn’t be scaled down to 75% of their intended yield. Its brushed steel construction was also unusual. Even if a brew could be scaled down safely, many compounds were reactive with iron. It was why pewter had become the gold standard for cauldrons since the invention of Potioneering.

“What are those?” Theo pointed to eight miniature, two-pronged spears, also metal. Their handles were constructed of black composite and topped with colored rounds, two each of blue, green, red, and yellow. 

“I’m not sure.” 

“Did it come with instructions?” 

Draco shook his head. “Just the note.” 

The missive in question sat before the cauldron, unfolded. Its message read: 

_Roses are red  
Violets are blue  
Light a fire under me, baby  
Let’s do some fondue_. 

“What’s a fondue?” 

Draco’s question was mostly rhetorical. Theo took a stab at it anyway.

“Sexual position?” 

Draco gave him a deadpan look. “You have a problem.” 

“You’ll have a bigger one if you can’t figure out how to fondue Granger in two days.” 

Draco didn’t consider himself sexually inexperienced, which made the notion of learning something new from Hermione quite titillating. Except that, in this case, there were sharp props and the explicit mention of open flame. His throat worked in a swallow, and his underarms prickled with a nascent, nervous sweat. 

“Do you…” He cleared his throat. “How do you think the little spears are involved?” 

“Best you not tell me, mate,” Theo said with a shudder. “I don’t think I’d ever let you forget it otherwise. She still avoiding you?” 

“We’re avoiding each other. Our morning lift ride has become almost intolerable. People have started taking the stairs.” 

“I’m sure the Ministry’s Department of Employee Health will be happy to hear.” 

“We can’t go on like this, Theo.” 

“You’ve made it this far.” Theo clapped a hand to Draco’s shoulder. “You can survive until the fourteenth.” 

Draco looked back at the silver cauldron. Sure, _he_ could survive it. He’d gotten through the first half of his life on the wrong side of a war. And Hermione could survive it, too; she’d endured much worse than a wonky holiday. 

It was the survival of their relationship that concerned him. They had been seeing each other for only two months, and in that time, their romance had felt secret and safe. Perhaps only safe because it _was_ a secret. These past two weeks of chaos—of unnecessary gifts, unwanted scrutiny, unexpected discovery, and unrelenting stress—threatened to destroy it all.

“I don’t want to lose her,” Draco admitted quietly. 

Theo stilled. He searched Draco’s face, his eyes wide, as if he’d only now bothered to really look at the person he’d known since age eleven. Slowly, realization dawned, and Theo dropped his hand. He leaned back in his chair, struck, the weight of the potential consequences of the past two weeks landing all at once. 

“You’re serious about her, aren’t you? I’ve been having fun with all of this, but you… You’re serious.” 

Draco sighed. The knot in his chest felt tight to the point of snapping, caught between the opposing forces of terror and exhilaration. 

What good did it do to deny it any longer? He was crazy about the witch, infatuated in a way he didn’t recognize. He felt reckless when he was around her and borderline obsessive when he wasn’t. He’d developed a new executive function dedicated exclusively to her continued happiness, and the idea of disappointing her, and thus proving himself less-than-worthy of her affection, was a paralytic on par with a full body-bind. Sharing a breakfast date and an office and, occasionally, a bed no longer felt like enough. 

Draco wanted more, and he wanted it with her.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_Tuesday, February 13_

The package arrived at the day’s end. 

All Level Two employees had gone home for the day, so no one but the department’s Magical Maintenance Staffer—a wizened old man known only as Scrubs—saw the package arrive. 

A spray of white paper foamed from the top of a neon pink bag. Innocuous enough, until it sparked a shimmery piece of heart-shaped confetti. It drifted gently toward the desk but was taken into orbit before it could land, a lone satellite circling an obscenely fluorescent planet. 

Scrubs watched, fascinated, as the bag belched another shimmery piece of future-trash a few minutes later, this time shaped like a pair of puckered lips, glossed a carnivorous red. 

His eyes widened; he made a mental note to come in early tomorrow. 

The discovery of that package would be worth seeing.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_Wednesday, February 14_

Hermione stepped from the lift and into a cacophony of noise. The howls and hoots of nonexistent monkeys echoed from the office’s far end, and the rumbling growls of jungle cats emanated from every alternate shrub. Their floor’s Magical Maintenance Staffer, who was still performing his daily pruning, seemed nonplussed by the noise. A kaleidoscope of green, pink, and yellow light dappled the otherwise monotonous furniture, and memos flit across the hallways just above eye level, the charmed birds still traveling in their obligatory pairs. 

Though there was no lack of distraction, the most noticeable feature of Level Two was situated on her desk.

“Oh no…” Draco muttered from her elbow. He held his cheese Danish limply, and his to-go cup of tea spilled out onto the carpet. He looked at the hot-pink gift bag as if it contained a bomb. “Don’t open it.”

“Why? It’s from you, isn’t it?” A measure of pique entered her voice. “They’ve all been from you.” 

Their eyes met. Hermione saw conflict on his brow, an internal struggle. That’s all it took for the threads of uncertainty she’d felt over the past two weeks to tighten into a knot of anger. 

“Hermione, wait—” 

She dodged his restraining hand and marched to her desk. The bag’s shimmering orbital ring, which she now saw was made of suggestive confetti, fell away as she tore through the white tissue paper. A cold calm descended as her worst fears were confirmed. 

A mess of black lace, straps, and ribbons. 

Fur-covered restraints. 

A leather riding crop. 

She shut the bag, and Draco took an instinctive step back at the severity of her glare. 

“Have you lost. Your bloody. _Mind_?” 

She shoved the bag into his chest as she stormed past. He opened it and swore. Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“Grow up.” 

“Hold on.” This time, he caught her wrist and tugged her to a stop. “You can’t honestly think this is from me.” 

“Why wouldn’t I? It fits the pattern. The bath set, the weird meats...” 

“Weird meats?” 

Hermione sighed and closed her eyes, trying for deep breaths, barely holding on to the scraps of her patience. Why was he still denying it? There wasn’t any point to continuing the game. 

“We’d agreed in January: no gifts. I let the card and the flowers slide because the thought behind them was sweet, but it’s gotten out of control.” 

“Well, what about the chocolates?” 

She stiffened, curled her fingers into a fist. 

“The chocolates,” Draco repeated, brow drawn in frustration. “And the wine. They were expensive. Too expensive for you.” 

“ _Excuse me_?” Hermione snapped. The jungle had dropped into silence, its inhabitants hanging on their every word. “I’ll have you know that I have a very tidy savings. I don’t need your _permission_ or your _approval_ to buy expensive things if I want them!” 

“Hermione, that bottle of wine is 53 Galleons. You didn’t need to spend that and certainly not on me.” 

Her jaw dropped. Fifty-three Galleons for less than a liter of wine was ungodly. But she collected herself, chin set. 

“I’ll spend my money where I want,” she said, her tone glacial. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Also, what the hell are you talking about?” 

Draco continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “And the bath set.” He stepped closer, his silver eyes as severe and cold as slate. “If you have a problem with my hygiene habits, I expect to have an adult conversation about it. Not to be delivered some gift-wrapped, underhanded _hint_.” 

“I haven’t had a problem with them until last Friday! You’ve smelled like you’ve been sleeping on pine shavings ever since. Besides, you’re one to talk. The bath set you gave me? It _reeks_. I thought I’d adjust, but the only thing worthwhile from that basket is the robe. A snail mucin mask… What were you thinking?”

“ _Snail mucin_?” 

“You don’t even know what you _bought_?” Hermione rolled her eyes again. “Nicely done, Draco. You really know how to show a woman you care.”

Draco straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, as though preparing for the _coup de grâce_. 

“Well, what the devil is fondue?” 

This stopped her short. How did Draco know about the singularly Muggle tradition of fondue? 

“There isn’t much I wouldn’t try for you,” he continued stiffly, “but if you come near my nether bits with a spear and a cauldron, I’m off.” 

Gobsmacked, it took a moment for his threat to land. She slapped a hand over her mouth, but that wasn’t nearly enough to prevent her borderline hysterical laugh from bubbling forth. She couldn’t help it: the situation had rounded the corner from upsetting and was sliding into absurdity at breakneck speed. 

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” he said, voice clipped and sharp as a fondue fork. 

“ _Fondue_ ,” she gasped. “It’s hot oil, or cheese, or—”

“I _don’t_ want to hear it.” 

“Chocolate,” she finished. 

He raised a brow, reconsidering. “Go on…” 

“It’s dinner!” she said, wiping her eyes. “It’s a way to make food. Only, I don’t understand how you would know about that.” 

“ _Because you sent it_!” He tossed his arms in frustration. “You’ve sent all of it! The chocolate, the wine, the bath set, and the fondue, all over the span of two weeks.” 

“But I didn’t! _You_ were the one sending _me_ gifts! A card, flowers, a bath set, the meats, and now…” She grimaced at the bag in his hand. “You broke our agreement,” she said with a disappointment she couldn’t suppress. 

“I didn’t break our agreement,” he replied. “I didn’t send you any of that rubbish.” 

“ _What_?” 

“When I received the chocolates, I thought you’d gone back on your word. Then I saw the flowers and knew that someone else had to be sending you gifts. I didn’t know who, and I was _advised_ ”—He shot a look over Hermione’s shoulder to Theo, who was leaning against their paired desk and looking smug.—“to keep mum about it so as not to ruin your fun.”

“This has not been fun,” Hermione stated. 

“No, it hasn’t,” Draco agreed.

“I thought it was you. This whole time, I thought you were unhappy with what we’d decided. I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t just tell me the truth.” 

“I know.” He took her hand. “I’m sorry. I should’ve talked to you about it the minute I suspected something was off. I just wanted to make you happy. I had no idea…” 

“Same,” she admitted. She felt calmer now that some of the pieces had slotted into place. Draco’s anger had been as real as her own, and she believed him, despite her rather insane collection of evidence and some truly wretched poetry indicating the contrary. 

By now, the entire department had gathered around them. Several people cooed, swept up by the drama. Someone from the crowd muttered, “It’s about bloody time.”

Heat crawled into Hermione’s cheeks. “Well,” she said, shifting her weight. “I suppose this is rather anticlimactic now, but I did get you something. As repayment, for all that I thought you’d given me.”

“Hermione…” Draco’s voice had dropped an octave, his eyes warm. He looked like he wanted to take the conversation somewhere else, somewhere private, but she had already drawn the gift from her robe. He unwrapped it and let the red paper fall to the floor between them. 

“A toothbrush?” 

“For my place,” she explained. The green-handled brush had taken her far too long to select, and she looked at it to avoid looking at him. “I thought maybe you could try staying the night sometime. Maybe even tonight, if you wanted,” she added with a forced-casual shrug. Someone in the crowd hiccoughed a sob. 

Draco set the toothbrush on her desk, then reached into his robe pocket. He withdrew a roll of parchment, sealed with black wax and imprinted with the Malfoy family crest. 

“I got you something, too,” he admitted. “It’s not much after receiving, what was it? A meat bouquet? But I thought you might like it.” 

Hermione breathed a laugh, then slid a finger beneath the wax and skimmed the letter’s neat script. 

“It’s from your mother.” She met his eyes, excitement and trepidation building in her chest. “An invitation to tea?” 

“It’s time you were properly introduced. She should know who I’m dating.” 

Hermione worried the note’s corner. “Are you… What if…” 

“Yes, I’m sure. And I don’t care if she doesn’t like you.” Draco cupped her face with his hands. “I do,” he whispered against her lips, “and that’s enough.” 

They kissed, and the office erupted, the applause of their coworkers nearly drowned out by the trumpeting of incongruous elephants and the hollers of invisible apes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 53 Galleons = $352 = €296


	12. Chapter 12

**Epilogue**

Carol wiped her glasses on the hem of her leopard-print tunic, the lenses gone misty from the tears in her eyes. A pair of parchment lovebirds had perched on her shoulder, their heads canted toward one another. A look of charmed contentment filled their inked eyes. It was not unlike the look Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger currently shared.

Her chest ached with the satisfaction of a job well done. Carol had realized the Malfoy boy’s potential almost at once. He strode the line between sweet and snarky, and his bad-boy reputation had made him nearly irresistible. Judging by the attention he’d received from his office mates, several women—and a few men, if her intuition served—had been interested in furnishing the plot for his sorely-needed redemption arc. 

But Draco, to his credit, had only ever had eyes for one woman. Carol had initially been skeptical at his choice of bookish, by-the-rules Granger, but who was she to meddle with animal attraction?

The perfect person. 

In fact, perhaps the _only_ person who could manage such a delicate operation with the required subtlety and tact. 

However, and much to her surprise, Carol’s year-long efforts had yielded nothing. Last year’s murder mystery event ( _Dial VD for Valentine’s Death_ , which had taken her _ages_ to plan) had sent the department into such a tizzy that there had been more paperwork than romance. While the pair had exchanged enough simmering glances to roast a whole hog during the _Summer Swimsuits and Sunshine_ event, they’d kept their interactions work appropriate, even during the three-legged race. Carol had almost given up at Christmas, but Merry Mark, her faithful familiar, had shifted the equation and renewed her flagging hope. These two weeks of gift exchanges—in which she’d arranged the purchase and delivery of the most romantic gifts known to humankind, accompanied by some of her finest, most compelling verse—had been her _magnum opus_. 

Had it been extreme?

Yes. But then, so was their obliviousness. 

Had she blown 70% of this year’s event budget on it? 

Yes. But she was not one for half-measures or jobs left undone. 

After all, she was the Administrative Assistant for the most important Level in the Ministry of Magic, save for the Minister’s own admin. And it was just a matter of time before that ninny Marsha Wayfer screwed something up and Carol was brought in to fix it. 

Because _she_ was who they called when the impossible needed to happen. 

When meetings needed to be scheduled with ten participants on two days’ notice at a venue with fresh shrimp cocktail and a minimum of four vegan menu options. 

When feuding heads of state needed to be wrangled for a tête-à-tête without either of them knowing it. 

When they needed to source a cheaper brand of self-inking quills without compromising durability, weight, balance, or color fastness. 

Whatever was needed, Carol could make it happen, and damned if these two lovebirds would be the exception.

* * *

_Later that night…_

Hermione rolled off of Draco, her curls damp with sweat. Her boyfriend—her official, out-in-the-open, office-compliant _boyfriend_ —panted where he lay in her bed, his hands still drawn above his head, chained to her headboard courtesy of their new Fuzzy Love Cuffs. She grabbed her wand from the nightstand and tapped the restraints to unlock them. Draco’s shoulders relaxed, but he left his arms above his head. He looked positively knackered. 

“You all right?” 

He cracked an eye open. “Better.” He drew her close, and she rested her head on his chest. He toyed with the stain strap of her babydoll négligée, his fingers skimming lightly over her skin. “Who do we have to thank for this, I wonder?” 

“I was thinking about that. This nightie gives it away.” She rolled onto her elbow, bracing herself across his chest. His eyes drifted down, to where the black lace cut across the swell of her breasts. She saw him stir from the corner of her eye. “Really?” she asked, deadpan. 

“I’m only human,” he said with a grin. “But please, continue.” 

“Who had an interest in seeing us together?” Hermione asked. 

The question was supposed to be rhetorical, the first breadcrumb along the path toward her logical conclusion. Draco answered it anyway.

“The entire department, apparently.” 

“Who else in the department knows my shirt size?” 

“Weasley? No, he never would’ve remembered. Potter.” 

Hermione gave him a playful swat.

“Who would have had to collect such information to order t-shirts for the interdepartmental Ministry picnic?” 

Draco’s eyes widened. “You don’t think?” 

“I do.” 

“Carol…” Draco said thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose she could’ve done worse.” 

Hermione raised a brow. “Worse than meddle in the Compliance Officer’s love life?”

“Oh, no. That was an enormous mistake. I assume she’ll be undergoing a financial audit later this year?” 

“You assume correctly.” 

Draco grinned. “I love it when you’re vindictive. And I meant she could’ve done worse with her choice of present.” He held out his hand, and the leather riding crop flew across the room and into his open palm. He trailed it down Hermione’s body, raising goosebumps on her thighs. “Fancy a bit of role play, Granger? Maybe Strict Supervisor and Truant Employee?”

She grinned down at him. “Only if I get to be the Truant Employee.” 

He gave the crop a flick, a tease just hard enough to make her breath hitch. 

“The safeword,” he whispered, “is _fondue_.”

**The End**


End file.
